


The Fisher King

by JaneBoleynWu



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-05-28 12:38:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6329554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneBoleynWu/pseuds/JaneBoleynWu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhaegar defeated the rebel army at the Trident. Fifteen years later, Princess Daenerys goes North to heal a fractured realm, while Rhaegar searches for his lost child and the Starks are once again caught in the game of thrones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Daenerys I

_Maester Yandel’s History_  
_Robert’s Rebellion came to an end in late 283 AC, when Prince Rhaegar crushed the rebel army at the Trident. In the aftermath of the battle, he issued a blanket pardon to all those who bent the knee, including the lords Stark, Arryn, and Baratheon. He tempered mercy with wisdom by ordering Edmure Tully and Renly Baratheon, and Lord Stark’s newborn son be sent to King’s Landing to serve as wards._  
_King Aerys, however, suspected Rhaegar of having plotted with the rebels and, at a celebratory feast, ordered his son to be burnt alive. Jaime Lannister, a young knight of the KIngsguard, betrayed his vows and slew Aerys as he sat on his throne. Rhaegar was acclaimed as King and Jaime was stripped of his white cloak._

  
**Daenerys**  
The Queen had been sick again. She had been persistently unwell ever since Princess Rhaenys left for Highgarden, almost a year ago. Maester Pycelle had proclaimed her out of danger, but she was still bone thin, and delicate as a leaf. Plopped up against cushions in her solar and swathed in black and red silk, she looked as if a steady breeze might send her toppling.

“She surrounds herself with Dornishmen,” Griff had complained. “She forgets this is not Sunspear.” It was true. Elia was attended by her niece, Princess Arianne, the Fowler girls and Sylva Santagar, her brother’s bastards, Nymeria and Tyene Sand, and his paramour, Ellaria and her little daughters, Ashara Yronwood and her sister Allyria Dayne and her stepdaughters. Only Lynesse Hightower, Roslin Frey and Dany herself came from elsewhere.

They were all gathered around the window now, watching Viserys and Renly spar in the yard. Renly was nearly a head taller and muscled like an ox, but Viserys was quick as a cat. In the end, Renly managed to corner Viserys and force him to his knees.

“A pity,” Arianne remarked, playing with her braid. “Somebody ought to teach the little stag a lesson.” She had not yet recovered from the wound to her pride sustained when her attempts to seduce Lord Baratheon had failed with aplomb.

“I hope they go another round,” Dany said, as Viserys rose to his feet, clutching his blade and the remains of his dignity. She couldn’t decide if she wanted Renly or Viserys to win; Viserys liked to wrap himself in arrogant airs, but he was her brother and she was inclined to sympathise with Arianne.

The solar door creaked open, and the ladies flew from the window and dipped into hasty curtseys as the king entered. “Husband,” Elia said coolly, pulling her furs tighter as if to ward off some unseen contagion.

“Elia.” Rhaegar sat down on a plain wooden stool, ignoring Sylva veritably throwing a palatial, magnificently cushioned chair at him. “Leave us,” he ordered, waving his hand. “Except you Dany,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

The ladies curtseyed again and filed out, closing the door behind them.

“Rhaenys has delivered of a healthy son,” Rhaegar said, with the hint of a smile.

“What will she call him?” Dany asked eagerly.

“Aemon.” Rhaegar’s long fingers played with the gold buttons on his tunic. “I’ve invited her to come to court with her son and husband,” he told Elia. “You will be pleased to hear that, no doubt.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Elia said, bowing her head. “May I see her letter?”

Rhaegar reached into his tunic, pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment, and handed it to Elia, who clasped it as if it was a holy relic.

“I intend to go to Winterfell,” Rhaegar continued. “I see your health does not permit you to travel with me.”

“Indeed it does not.”

Rhaegar turned to Dany. “Sit down sweetling,” he said gently.

Dany duly sat. She wondered if he was about to impart some fantastical news- probably regarding some arcane Valyrian prophecy- and was worried that she would be so overcome as to faint.

“Do you like Robb Stark?” Rhaegar asked.

Oh. “I like him well enough,” Dany said cautiously. That was not a lie. Robb was kind and bold and gallant, a fierce auburn haired youth of fifteen… but she did not love him.

“Well enough to marry him?” Her brother seldom danced around a subject.

“She’s only thirteen,” Elia broke in suddenly. “Too young, surely.”

“She need not marry him immediately.” Rhaegar’s voice was curt. Turning to her, he said, more gently, “Dany, my plan is for you to go North with me. You and Robb can stay in Winterfell. If you like him- and the North- you can wed after two or three years. Elsewise you can come back South.”

That’s fair, Dany told herself. It was more than fair- it was generous- but something in Dany still balked at the idea of leaving King’s Landing, of leaving Elia and her silver haired brothers and the Red Keep and exchanging it all for snow and sleet and the cold grey walls of Winterfell. You cannot stay a child forever, she reminded herself sharply. “I think I shall like him, only…”

“What is it Dany?” Rhaegar asked.

“I shan’t see Rhaenys this way.”

“You will see her,” Rhaegar promised. “We’ll have your wedding hosted in the South, in Riverrun perhaps, or else we’ll all go North to see you wed. And I’ll send for you, Dany.” He smiled at her. “I won’t allow you to linger there forever, however much you may grow to like it. Perhaps Robb can take his father’s seat on the Small Council, in time.”

“In that case, I’ll leave gladly.”

Rhaegar nodded and kissed her hands. “I’ve offered Aegon’s hand for his elder daughter,” he told Elia, rising. “I’m sending Edmure back to Riverrun too. They say his father is dying.”

“When will you be leaving?” Elia asked.

“As soon as the search parties come back.”

Elia’s expression did not change, but Dany understood. Every year, ever since he had ridden to the Tower of Joy to find his men slaughtered and his love gone, Rhaegar had sent out men to scour the Seven Kingdoms for a sign of Lyanna and her babe. Every year, they came back with nothing.

“And when will my daughter be arriving?” Elia asked.

“Soon,” Rhaegar promised, bowing slightly. Elia watched blankly as he turned and left.


	2. Catelyn I

**Catelyn**

Ned was in the godswood again, his head bowed in prayer or contemplation before the heart tree. Ice lay at his feet, unsheathed. Catelyn always felt a tinge of unease when she was in her husband’s godswood. The one at Riverrun had been half a garden and half an orchard, with flowers and apple trees and a little brook that she used to swim in. The godswoods of the North were a different matter altogether.

“The King is coming North,” she said softly, sitting down beside him. His letter was still clutched in her hand. “Robb is with him. He’s to be returned to us.”

For a moment, Ned was so still she thought he had not heard. Then he raised his head and clasped his hands. “Our son.”

“Yes.” Catelyn blinked back tears. She had not seen him since he was a babe in her arms. They had taken him from her when she was suckling him and she had come North to find an imposter in the cradle. She had Bran and Rickon and the girls to console her, but Robb’s absence had left a void in her and in Ned as well.

“He will be almost a stranger to us,” Ned murmured.

She had not thought of that. “It does not matter,” she insisted. “He is ours and he will always be ours.”

Ned smiled. “And your brother?” Even now, he thought of her.

“He’s to travel with the party as far as the crossroads, and then he’s to set off for Riverrun.” _Edmure._ It had been so long since she last saw him. _And Father._

“You should go to visit them,” Ned said. “After the King leaves. Who rides with him?”

“His brother and sister, his son Aegon, his Hand Connington, Barristan Selmy, a dozen lords, half a hundred knights with their squires, and even more free riders. Three hundred in all.”

“Damn him,” Ned said, suddenly fierce. “Isn’t it enough to send Robb by himself? What does he need to come North for?”

Catelyn bit her lip. _He will mislike this._ “The King wishes to wed his sister Daenerys to Robb, and Sansa to his son Aegon.” _The Pact of Ice and Fire,_ he had called it in his letter. “He offers to take Bran to squire and give you a seat on the Small Council.”

“We will decline,” Ned said bluntly.                                                           

“A royal match is a great honour,” Catelyn said cautiously.

“I want none of his honours. He seduced my sister and stole my son.” His eyes fell to Ice, as if he were contemplating how best to strike off the King’s head. “I won’t send Sansa and Bran down into that viper’s den. My father and brother died there.”

“We may not have a choice in the matter,” Catelyn pointed out. “He will take it ill if we refuse.” She laid a hand on his arm. “He is said to be a gentle king. No harm will come to Sansa, and one day, she will be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“All the same,” Ned insisted, “he may mean to take them as hostages in place of Robb.”

“He is to leave his sister with us,” Catelyn said. “He would not do that if he meant us ill.” Ned bit his lip, and Catelyn continued, “If we balk or refuse, he may take this as proof of treason. If we accept, then your daughter shall be queen and your son will wed a dragon princess.”

“Damn you,” Ned said suddenly. “Brandon was meant for this, not me. He was meant to consort with kings and father queens.”

Catelyn knew then that she had won. “Brandon is dead, and the cup has passed to you.”

“Dead at the hands of the Mad King.”

“This king means to make amends with you,” Catelyn said. “He’s giving us our son back. Don’t rebuff him now.”

Ned stared into the distance. For a long time, he was silent, contemplating the walls and woods of the home he was to leave behind. “You are to stay here.”

 “No,” Catelyn said. Was this her punishment? To be parted with him forever? To go back, every night, to an empty bed and a hearth without a husband?

“You must,” Ned insisted. “You will teach Robb how to govern and acclimate him to our ways. Bran, Sansa, and Arya will go South with me.”

 _Bran._ That cut deep. Sansa was a lady of the South, and she would shine amidst the glamour of the court, and Arya could learn much from there… but Bran was her darling, her bright eyed laughing boy. _The King has ordered it,_ she reminded herself. “And what of Jon Snow?” she asked. “He cannot stay here.”

“I cannot take him South with me,” Ned said. “A bastard has no place at court.”

“The Red Viper brings his bastards to court,” Catelyn pointed out. “They attend the Queen.” _The Sand Snakes,_ men called them. The four youngest were borne by Oberyn’s paramour, Ellaria Sand, herself a bastard and another one of the Queen’s attendants.

“The Dornish are different,” Ned said curtly. “I will not take Jon to court.”

“Send him elsewhere then. To Lord Arryn in the Vale, or Robert Baratheon. He is your son, not mine. There is no place for him at Winterfell.” It was hard, she knew, but no less the truth for it.

“Gods be good, Catelyn. He’s only a boy and he has never wronged you,” Ned said, after a silence.

“I won’t have him here. Jon must go.” It had been hard enough, these past fifteen years, watching Jon Snow grow into manhood in place of the son she had lost. For fifteen years, she had seen Ned calling Jon “son” for all the North to see and educating him as one might an heir, while his own trueborn son was naught but a stranger to him. She would not have him here now, when Robb was finally returned to her.

“You are cruel, Catelyn,” Ned murmured. “I will find some other arrangement for him.” Catelyn wanted to embrace him, but she knew that would be the wrong thing to do now. Instead, she watched as he rose, picked up Ice and sheathed it in one fluid motion. “You will have to arrange the princess’s household. How old is she now?”

“Thirteen.”

“Two years younger than Robb,” Ned mused. “They will have to learn our ways, and fast. Winter is coming.”

“Robb will learn,” Catelyn promised. “He’s coming home.”


	3. Ned I

**Ned**

The King arrived with his household, four hundred strong, knights and lords and free riders, glittering in gold and steel or swathed in sables and slashed velvet. The guardsmen entered first, carrying the red and black banners that flapped in the wind, and then the king himself, surrounded by the men of his household. He was a lean, silver haired man, still handsome, taller than the others, in plain black velvet. Besides him was a youth with the same silver hair, with the three headed dragon of House Targaryen embroidered on his tunic, who could only be Prince Aegon, and another youth, red headed and stocky… _Robb._

The King approached them, with the two boys following. Robb was carrying a small bundle in his arms.

Ned bowed, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cat dip into a curtsey. His children followed suit. “Your Grace is welcome here.”

“Thank you,” Rhaegar said. He was much as Ned remembered him; fair skin, sad violet eyes, and regular sculpted features. His face was a little lined now, and is eyes even sadder, with a vague, far off look, as if he were trapped in some bittersweet memory. _Is it Lyanna he remembers, or the child he never knew?_ He made a gesture and Robb stepped forward. “Your son.”

 _He looks like Catelyn,_ was Ned’s first thought. The boy had Cat’s clear blue eyes, fair skin speckled with freckles, and reddish hair. Robert had spoken true; he was tall and well built for his age, nearly as tall as Ned, with room to grow. His grey wool cloak was clasped with a direwolf brooch and in his arms…

“We found them on the way here,” Robb explained bashfully. “Their mother was dead. There are five of them, one for each of your trueborn children, and an albino for my bastard brother.”

“A direwolf,” Ned murmured, lifting the pup from Robb’s arms. Direwolves had not been South of the Wall for near two hundred years. Catelyn embraced her son and Ned stroked the pup. _An omen,_ Ned thought, _but for good or ill?_

“These are your siblings,” Catelyn said, clasping Robb’s hand. “Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon.”

Sansa dipped into a curtsey. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, brother.”

“Can we see our wolf pups?” Bran demanded eagerly.

The King gestured to two guardsmen, and they stepped forward. The children half dashed for them, plucking the warm, wiggling bundles from their arms. Rickon took the largest, a pup black as midnight, and nearly dropped them. Only Sansa remembered to greet the princes and princess, who were still waiting in the yard. Ned cleared his throat to reprimand them, and saw the King watching them with a strange, sad smile and a wistful look in his eyes. Instead, he turned and handed the pup back to Robb. “What have you named him?”

“Grey Wind,” Robb said, still sounding a little hesitant. _My son._ Ned embraced him. Robb seemed caught by surprise, but he returned the hug, balancing the pup awkwardly in one hand. When he released him, Robb was blushing and the pup was squeaking indignantly.

“I suppose I’m home now,” he said, smiling and clutching the pup to his chest.


	4. Jon I

**Jon**

“Spar with me,” Robb said, setting Grey Wind on the ground. Jon’s pup, Ghost, ran towards his brother on lanky legs and overlarge feet.

“Gladly,” Jon said, eyeing Robb uncertainly. He had heard so much of him, this stolen, trueborn brother of his that he felt he knew him already. There were half formed fragments in his mind, of sharing milk with him and tumbling over each other in the litter, and he felt certain that Robb shared them… and yet his half brother was still a stranger to him. 

“I bet Jon’ll win,” Arya said eagerly, and Bran chorused his agreement. In the corner of the yard, Nymeria, Summer, Shaggydog and Lady were tussling in the shade. Rickon was cheering on Shaggy enthusiastically, and ignoring everybody else.

“I think Robb will win,” Sansa said, with an eager glance at her brother.

Ser Rodrik handed them each a blunted steel blade.

“Ready?” Robb asked.

“Ready,” Jon echoed.

Robb fought well. He was strong, but fast, though Jon could parry and dodge him well enough. He fought briskly, to the point, without flourish or arrogance, almost like a sellsword. Jon danced around him as well as he could, lunging forward now and again, while Arya cheered and whooped vehemently. At last, Jon managed to strike the blade out of Robb’s hands and force him to his knees.

“I yield,” Robb said, breathless.

Jon lowered the sword. Robb rose, still breathing heavily, but grinning now. “That was well matched, Snow.”

“Indeed, Stark. Shall we try again?”

They were in the yard all afternoon, with Bran and Sansa and Arya cheering them on in the shade, and the pups alternately wrestling and napping in the shade. When they finished, it was almost suppertime, and they were bruised and sweating and gasping for breath… and laughing too.

“You’re a good sort, Snow,” Robb said, as they climbed to their chambers. “Did Ser Rodrik teach you to fight?”

Jon nodded. “And you?”

“Ser Santagar, the master-at-arms. Ser Balon and Oberyn Martell too, a little bit. And the King.”  

“The King?” Jon asked curiously, as they half ran up the steps, Ghost and Grey Wind struggling after them.

Robb grinned. “Aye. The move I used to disarm you- he taught me that. He tried to teach me to sing too, with less success.”

“What about Barristan Selmy?” Jon had caught a glimpse of the famed Barristan the Bold as the royal party entered Winterfell. He was whitehaired, but upright, with an air of strength and dignity.

Robb laughed. “A few times. In truth, I didn’t learn much from him. His idea of training is just hitting you with a wooden stick until you disarm him, or he feels too guilty to continue.” They had reached the door to Robb’s chamber.

Robb pushed the door open. “Come sit with me,” he said. “I pilfered some a jug of wine and sweetmeats from the kitchen.”

Robb’s rooms were bigger than Jon’s, with a bedroom overlooking the godswood and an antechamber that served as a solar. The walls were covered in tapestries depicting the feats of long dead Starks and lady Catelyn had stitched the grey direwolf of their house onto every conceivable scrap of cloth. A mahogany table stood in the center of the room, with the pilfered wine and sweets, surrounded by three cushioned stools.

Scarcely had they sat down when Robb, restless and eager, asked Jon to show him the godswood and the winter village. They left the pups in the kennel, for they were too young to keep up with the horses, and plunged eagerly into the cool, misty forest, just as the sun was setting.

“The godswood at King’s Landing was airier,” Robb remarked. “This… it’s different. I can feel the old gods here.”

“Do you like it?” Jon asked.

Robb shrugged. “The North is strange to me. I trust I will grow to like it in time.”

“Did you like King’s Landing?”

“It was my home,” Robb said. “The king was all but a father to me, and I was raised with his children. So yes, I did like it, but it does no good to dwell on it now. My place is here.” He pushed his reddish hair out of his eyes and grinned. _He likes very like Lady Catelyn,_ Jon thought. “See that creek Snow? Race you there?”

“Done.” Jon spurred his horse forward, and he and Robb were neck to neck in an instant. Robb was laughing and hooting as he rode, but Jon kept his horse well in hand and his eyes narrowed on the creek. He reached it a heartbeat before Robb. “I win!” he cried, and Robb grinned and said, “Just this once Snow. My gift to you.” It seemed almost as if they had been doing this since they were children.

It was dark as pitch when they returned. Jon was soaked in sweat and splattered with mud and grinning. Hodor had retired, and the other stable boy was wooing the kitchen maid when they arrived and afterwards attended his duties with a distinctly bad grace.

“We’ve missed supper,” Robb observed.

Jon shrugged. “There’s to be a feast tomorrow anyways.”

“I’m famished,” Robb said. “Do you want to go down to the kitchens, see what they have?”

“There’s never anything decent to be had at this hour.” Jon knew from experience. “Besides, the cook’ll –“ Jon fell silent as a man’s voice, low and sweet, drifted along the evening breeze.

“It’s the king,” Robb whispered, almost reverently.

As they approached the gate, they saw the figure of a man standing by the steps, head raised towards the heavens. A torch was in his right hand, held high as if in offering. He did not seem to see them.

“My lord?” Robb asked. The man broke off singing, lowered the torch. Jon bowed hastily.

“Robb,” the man said, smiling. By torchlight, Jon drank in the sight of the king. He was tall and lean, with elegant features and a thin face, only slightly lined, was framed by loose silver hair. There was an air of sadness and regality about him, all at once. “Do you like Winterfell?”

“As much as I expected to, my lord,” Robb said. “It’s a hard place, but beautiful in its own way. I trust I will grow to love it, in time.”

The King gazed at Robb steadily, before turning his eyes upon Jon. “Who’s this?” he asked, suddenly solemn.

“My half brother,” Robb explained. “Jon Snow.”

“Come closer,” the king ordered.

Jon stepped forward, but the King beckoned him still closer, till he could feel the heat of the torch on his face. It did not bother him, somehow. The flames seemed merely to be an extension of the King’s body, imperious without being cruel.

“How old are you, Jon Snow?” the King asked, seizing Jon’s chin with one hand. His voice, so melodious a moment ago, was cold and brittle as ice.

“Almost fifteen, my lord.” Jon tried to wiggle away, but the King’s fingers held him fast.

The King stared at him with hard, violet eyes, seeming to examine and measure every feature on his face. Jon felt good as naked before him. Finally he released him and said, “You look a great deal like Lyanna. I think we shall like each other.”

 


	5. Daenerys II

**Daenerys**

The feast was in full swing. The table groaned under plates of buttered capon and roast duck, scented soups and stews, salads of sweet lettuce and plums, and half a dozen pies. There was wine too, jugs of Dornish red and Arbor gold, sweet plum wine and tangy spiced wine that made Dany’s held spin. Rhaegar had instructed her to be moderate and Dany had mixed her drink with water and ale, but he had, apparently, extended no such order to Viserys and Aegon, who were well and truly drunk. Viserys, who was neither a graceful loser nor a quiet drunk, was haranguing Aegon about his loss against Clegane in the tourney at Highgarden. Clegane had thrown Viserys off his horse and into the dirt, but her brother was now insisting, loudly and colourfully, that the man had cheated. Aegon, for his part, was evidently enjoying teasing his uncle.

“You look lovely,” Robb told her, sounding a little bashful. He always sounded bashful around her now, ever since Rhaegar had told them they were to be wed.

“Thank you,” Dany said. She was wearing a dress of pale violet silk, embroidered with silver thread, made in the Southern style, and a pearl necklace that was a gift from Rhaenys. After that, there was no more conversation between them, and Robb added his voice to Aegon’s and Viserys’, eagerly disputing the results of the tourney. For her part, Dany listened. _A lady should have eyes like a hawk and ears like a fox,_ Elia had told her once.

At the center of the dais, Rhaegar was conversing with Lord and Lady Stark in stiff tones. Her brother had a mind to reinstate Aegon’s reforms and he would need the cooperation of the lords Paramount for that.

“It will be difficult to enforce,” Lord Stark said bluntly. “And the lords will mislike it.”

“It must be done all the same,” Rhaegar said, with certainty. He did not say how he knew it, but Dany knew; her brother had dreamt it. “Dragon dreams” he called them. Dany wished she had such dreams, although she was not sure if she would follow them when it came to making laws. Mostly, though, she dreamt of enormous butterflies and six headed cats.

The hall at Winterfell was lit by a hundred torches, and hazy with smoke. Serving boys and maids bustled around the tables, carrying platters of sweet meats or bowls of rich venison soup, and a singer was singing The Dornishman’s Wife. He had a sweet enough voice, but to Dany, accustomed to her brother’s low, melodious tones, it sounded weak and discordant.

Lady Catelyn had not permitted her children to bring their wolves to the feast. Dany was sorry for it; the wolves did not frighten her as they frightened Aegon and Viserys. “They’re omens,” Rhaegar told her, when they found the pups. “There’s not been a direwolf south of the Wall in two hundred years.”

“What does it mean?” she had asked, but he had only shaken his head. The discovery of the wolf pups had bothered him; he had been terse and melancholy all the way to Winterfell and now her brother looked as if he was walking on a knife’s edge.

“Control yourself,” Connington said sternly to Viserys and Aegon. Viserys, who had squired for Connington, broke off mid-harangue, looking slightly admonished. Aegon looked not at all abashed. Connington cast a suspicious glance at Lord and Lady Stark, as if he feared that Lord Stark would draw Ice from his scabbard and drive it through her brother’s body. _He has not forgotten the Battle of Stoney Sept._

“We’re among friends,” Aegon said lightly. “And family.” He smiled at Sansa Stark, radiant in sky blue silk, who blushed prettily and bowed her head.

Just then, Rhaegar rose suddenly and gestured for silence. The clamour of the great hall dropped to a low murmur, as three squires entered, each bearing a large cedar chest. “My parting gift to my sister,” he announced, and the servants hastened to clear the table before the squires laid the chests before her.

The hall was silent as she unlatched the chests one by one, and lifted the lids open. Inside each chest was a large, oval stone, patterned in shimmering golds and crimsons and deep green, finer than any jewel. They were the most beautiful things she had ever seen. When she touched one, it was covered in scales and warm to the touch. One was a deep green, flecked with bronze, and the other was a milky white and gold. The third was black as the night and etched with deep red swirls. _Dragon eggs._

“Thank you brother,” Dany said. “I will treasure these.” _Where did he get them from,_ she wondered, _and why give them to me?_  But she already knew the answer to that; he had dreamt it, and so he had done it. As the servants carried the eggs to her chambers, she caught sight of Viserys’ face, dark and sullen with anger. _He envies me._

Soon afterwards, Dany made her excuses and slipped into the courtyard. It was deserted, except for Dany.  She shivered and pulled her furs tighter; there was a bite to the air here, and a cold that cut to the bone. All the same, the air was cool and sweet, a welcome respite from the smoke of the great hall. _Three eggs for the three heads of the dragon._

“I thought I might find you here,” a voice said behind her.

She turned to see Viserys, swaying slightly with drink, standing behind her.

“You should go back inside,” she told him.

“So should you. Revelling in your triumph, are you?”

“No. I had a headache from the smoke.”

Viserys snorted. “Don’t get too full of yourself,” he said nastily. “Those eggs were just his consolation for selling you North.”

“I- don’t say that,” Dany snapped back. “You’re just jealous because you didn’t get one.”

“Why would I want one?” Viserys demanded, grabbing her arm. “There are dragons aplenty in the south. Those eggs are probably the closest thing you’ll get to seeing a dragon again, now he’s given you to the wolves.”

“ _Let go of me!_ ” Dany pushed him away.

Viserys sneered. “Enjoy freezing your arse up here. I don’t suppose the wolf pup would be much consolation.” Then he turned on his heel and stormed off.

Dany blinked back tears. _He’s just jealous,_ she told herself. Viserys had a seat on the small council, but not much else. Still, it stung, what he had said and the venom with which he had said it. _The dragon does not cry,_ she reminded herself, rubbing her eyes.

The doors flung open, and a boy dashed out of the hall, a wolf bounding after him. She recognized the wolf, if not the boy; it was the albino, the runt of the litter, with snowy fur and bright red eyes, always silent as a shadow.

“What’s his name?” Dany called.

The boy looked up. “What’s it to you?” he demanded, sniffling. _Why, he’s crying too._

“I’ve never seen a direwolf before.” Dany stepped forwards, offering her hand out hesitantly. The beast glared at her. “Can I touch him?”

“If you want,” the boy said. “Sit, Ghost. There. He won’t move now.”

Dany ran a hand through the wolf’s thick white fur. _It would be nice to have a wolf,_ she thought. _Almost as nice as having a dragon._ “Ghost is a good name.”

“Thank you,” the boy said stiffly, blinking back tears. “Princess.”

“Why are you crying?” she asked, curious.

“I’m not,” he snapped.

Dany smiled at him, and said nothing.

He glared at her, and for a moment, Dany thought he might storm off. Instead, he asked sharply, “Why are you crying?”

“My brother,” Dany explained. “Viserys, not Rhaegar. We had…words.” _He’s sold you to the wolves._ It was a good match, she reminded herself, and Rhaegar had promised her time to grow accustomed to the ways of the North before she was wed.

“What about?” the boy demanded.  

Dany shrugged. “He was jealous.” _Like you._ She knelt in front of Ghost, and he nuzzled her face. “He likes me.” It made her hopeful; if a four legged wolf liked her, perhaps the two legged ones would as well.

“I suppose he does.” Ghost’s owner looked none too pleased about it. “You’re not scared of him?”

Dany scratched Ghost’s ears and rubbed the scruff of his neck. “The blood of the dragon is never afraid.” She looked back up at the boy. With his long, pale face and dark eyes, he was almost a picture of Lord Stark, although there was a certain elegance in his features that was missing from Stark’s. “What about you? You’re Lord Stark’s bastard, aren’t you? That makes you wolf’s blood.” _A pact of ice and fire,_ Rhaegar had called it. _Wolves and dragons._

Jon Snow bit his lip and said nothing. She could tell he was not pleased by the reminder of his bastardy. “It makes no matter,” she said kindly. “Brandon Snow was a bastard, and he almost slew a dragon.” There were about a dozen other bastard heroes she could name.

Jon smiled slightly at that. “There are no dragons left to slay.”

“Even if there were, I would sooner ride one,” Dany said. Her thoughts went back to the dragon eggs in her chambers. Ever since she was a girl, she had dreamed of seeing the world from atop a dragon. _Instead I’m to be a wolf._ She wondered, distantly, if the Northern winters were cold enough to freeze a dragon’s blood. _I won’t freeze,_ she promised, looking up at the cold Northern sky. _I won’t freeze, and my children will be wolves and dragons both._ Even the stars were different here.


	6. Arya I

**Arya**

Septa Mordane was scolding her again. She usually scolded her, but Arya thought she was doing it more now, because the dragon princess was watching and the septa was afraid she would think they were all wild and clumsy and obstinate. _Like me._

Princess Daenerys was hardly even paying attention anyways. She was smiling, in a mild, regal sort of way, and listening to Jeyne and Sansa giggle about this or that. Sansa didn’t even notice she was listening, but Arya could tell. Whenever Arya tried to talk, Septa Mordane would tell her to hush and pay more attention to her stitches. It hardly seemed fair that Sansa could sew so delicately and prettily, and Arya couldn’t so much as mend a sock. “Arya has the hands of a blacksmith,” Septa Mordane told mother once.

Arya glanced at the princess again. She seemed sweet and gentle, but, then, so did the king. “Do you think it’s true?” Sansa had asked, the night the royal party arrived. “What they say about him and our lady aunt?” Mother and Septa Mordane had shushed her, but she could tell that Sansa was observing the king, trying to work out if he was the hero of a song, who braved all the world for his lady love, or the monster, stealing a maiden from her family and betrothed.

It was her own brother that interested Arya; Robb was kind and brave and funny, and he teased Arya, almost the way Jon did. She suspected he was a little upset at Sansa’s question, but if he was, he didn’t show it. He and Jon had gone hunting yesterday, and Arya had been allowed to join them, but Robb had spent all morning closeted with Father and Mother today, and now he was sparring in the yard. Arya wished she was with them. She wished she was anywhere except here, or at least that she had Nymeria with her.

“Are you listening at all, Arya?” Septa Mordane asked.

Arya nodded. She had not been listening.

Septa Mordane sighed. “You’ll have to undo your stitches,” she said. “These are all crooked.”

“They are not,” Arya insisted. The stitches _were_ crooked but her hands ached and she didn’t want to embroider the entire thing a second time. Sansa and Jeyne had fallen silent and they were looking at her now. Even the princess was looking at her, with her sharp purple eyes. Arya could feel the tears coming. She leapt to her feet and threw the embroidery to the floor.

“Arya!” Septa Mordane was scandalised. “What do you think you’re doing? And in front of our royal guests too!”

Arya gathered the remains of her dignity and swept out, slamming the door behind her. _It isn’t fair,_ she thought again. Sansa could do everything perfectly; she could see and sew and dance and name all the sigils of the great houses. Arya couldn’t do anything.

She went straight to her bedroom. Nymeria was waiting for her there, sleeping on her bed, which she wasn’t supposed to do. Arya let her do it anyways. When the direwolf saw her, she rose, stretched, and leapt nimbly off the bed, tail wagging. Arya wrapped her arms around the grey-white wolf and scratched her ears, and Nymeria licked her face. _I’ll always have her at least,_ Arya told herself. Nymeria didn’t care how crooked her stitches were.

She and Nymeria went to the tower window that overlooked the yard. Jon was there too, with Ghost by his feet, watching Robb and Aegon spar in the yard. He smiled when he saw her come, and Arya clambered into the window seat beside him.

“Why are you here?” Jon asked, shifting to make room for her. “I thought you’d be with Septa Mordane and the princess.”

“Septa Mordane was scolding me,” Arya explained, a little abashed. Down in the yard, Aegon and Robb picked up blunted swords and faced each other. This was not their first round; both of them were damp with sweat.

Jon smiled. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Arya protested heatedly. “Well, I threw my embroidery on the floor and stormed out, but that was after and it doesn’t count.”

“I suppose it doesn’t,” Jon agreed. “Although the Septa might disagree.”

“Why are you here?” Arya asked. “I thought you’d be down in the yard with them.”

Jon did not smile. “Bastard swords aren’t allowed to wound dragons,” he explained.

“That’s not fair,” Arya said stoutly. “You fought better than Robb.”

“Don’t tell Robb that.” Jon gestured to a man standing in the corner of the yard, dressed in a plain black tunic. “See that man there?”

Arya nodded.

“That’s the King.”

“The King?” She squinted. When she saw the King at the feast, he had been in a velvet tunic, with a gold chain around his neck. In plain black wool, with his silver hair covered, he looked almost like an ordinary man. Arya might have mistaken him for the master-at-arms. _He doesn’t look like a hero or a monster._ Perhaps she should tell Sansa that.

Jon and Arya watched in silence as Robb and Aegon faced each other, tourney swords drawn. Robb struck first, and Aegon parried it, quick and deft as a cat. The two were well matched, blow for blow, but in the end it was Aegon who was forced to his knees, when Robb feinted at his stomach and then hit him across the face. Two men hurried forward to help the prince to his feet. Another man, in sweaty red silk with silver hair, clapped Robb on the back.

“Well fought,” Ser Rodrik said.

Aegon grinned weakly, one hand clutching his head. “I’ll pay you back for this Robb,” he said, as he hobbled onto the sides.

“Shall we go another round?” the man in red asked Robb.

“That’s Prince Viserys,” Jon told Arya. “He’s an ass.”

“Not you,” the king said suddenly. He looked up at the window, right at them, and smiled. “Come down, both of you,” he called.

Arya glanced at Jon dubiously. Jon only shrugged, and the two of them made their way down into the yard, the wolves trailing after them. The King gave Arya a long hard glance when he saw her, but when he spoke it was to Jon. “Robb said you fight well.” Up close, the king did not look quite so ordinary.

Jon glanced at Robb, embarrassed. Robb grinned. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

The King seemed amused. “I want to see you fight,” he declared. “Will you go a round with my brother?” He stretched out his hand and Nymeria and Ghost came forward to sniff it. The king scratched Nymeria’s ears and rubbed Ghost’s neck absentmindedly.

“With him?” Viserys asked, apparently horrified.

“Are you frightened?” Jon asked.

“Of you?” Viserys laughed. “Not a chance, bastard.”

Jon flushed and half seized Robb’s tourney sword. Viserys picked up one that was lying on the ground, and surveyed Jon.

Arya watched, entranced, as her brother lunged at Viserys, who parried and then swung at Jon’s head. Jon blocked that one, and swung back at Viserys, pressing him back until the prince slide out, fluid as water. It went on and on, until the king stepped in and cried, “That’s enough!” The two of them broke apart then, swift as lightning.

“You both fought well,” the king told them, “but your stance is wrong Jon.” He walked over and corrected Jon’s posture. “Yours too, Viserys,” he said, when his brother smirked.

“He fights by the book,” Robb whispered to Arya. “He likes it when your moves are the same as the pictures in a textbook.” Arya didn’t care. She picked up a tourney sword and imitated Jon’s stance, holding the sword in front of her and keeping her arms low and her feet spaced. The sword was too heavy for her, and it was an effort to lift it, but she sucked in her breath and did it all the same.

“You can come join us, you know,” the King remarked, without looking at her. “And your stance is wrong too.” Arya startled, but she walked to the center of the yard, clutching her tourney sword. Viserys gave her an odd glance but said nothing. She felt a stab of guilt, and wondered what her father would say if he saw her. Arya chewed on her lip, and shifted into the position Jon was in.  When Jon swung the sword, she did the same.

That was how Septa Mordane and Mother found her.

“I didn’t- forgive me Your Grace,” Septa Mordane stammered, flushed and horrified. “I never met for the girl- the lady, that is, to be trouble-“

“Not at all,” the king remarked smoothly. “She’s the sister of my ward and squires. It’s natural that I should give her some advice in these manners.”

“Squires?” Mother asked blankly. “I beg Your Grace’s pardon. Surely you don’t mean to take Rickon as well?’

“No,” the King said, calm as still water. “I mean my new squire. Jon Snow.”


	7. Jon II

**Jon**

Jon’s rooms were in a state of disarray. His clothes, grey wools and furs and a new silk tunic Father had made for him, were thrown haphazardly in his suitcase or in a heap on his bed. Ghost padded around the room, amusing himself by tearing at his clothes or chewing on the suitcase. “No!” Jon cried, for the umpteenth time, as Ghost picked up a woollen sock and began to chew on it. “Drop it!” Ghost dropped it, but by then there was already a gaping hole in the green wool. After that, Jon had forced Ghost out of the room.

Sansa and Bran and Arya were all but finished packing by this time, but the king’s last minute decision meant he had only a week to ready his things. He might had sent for help, but the servants were busy with Robb and the princess Daenerys.

A raven had come from the Wall, another plea for help from the Lord Commander Mormont. Winter was coming, he had written, and the Wall was short of men, and swords, and provisions… and their uncle, Benjen Stark, was missing. Uncle Benjen was a sharp, gaunt man, first ranger of the Night’s Watch. He would ride down to Winterfell, from time to time, and tease the girls and little Rickon and teach Jon to spar and parry. He would tell tales too, of his rangings, when they had been caught in a snowstorm or fended off wildlings in the dead of night. _Missing._ Jon could not believe it; Benjen was the best ranger on the Wall. The Lord Commander had said it himself, in the letter.

Robb had been solemn when he read the letter, but Jon could tell that it was the part about the wildlings massing that truly bothered him. “We should send men there,” Robb said hesitantly, with a half hopeful glance at Father. “And food, from Bravoos.”

Father had nodded, at that, but then the princess said, “Why not go there ourselves? This is your realm, my lord, and you ought to see it.”

“A wise plan.” There had been approval in Father’s voice, and the princess had smiled then. It was agreed, then, that the two of them should make for the Wall in a roundabout way, stopping at the Dreadfort and the Karhold and the Last Hearth, and then set sail from Eastwatch by the Sea to White Harbour. From there, they would go west to Barrowton and Torrhen’s Square, before returning to Winterfell. Neither of them had sufficient clothes for the North, so Lady Catelyn had set all the servants to making heavy wool gowns and sable cloaks and muffs.

Jon had dreamt of going to the Wall more than once, of seeing the edge of the world and perhaps even serving as a brother of the Night’s Watch. Instead, he was to head South to serve a- a what? Jon thought of the gaunt, silver haired man with his regal features and the light purple eyes that saw nothing and everything at once. A king for certain, but what else? A tyrant and rapist? A singer, or a hero, or a madman? _I think we shall like each other,_ the king had said.

Jon dumped the remainder of his things in his trunk, none too neatly and succeeded in wrestling the lid shut. His chamber looked strangely empty, stripped of the clothes that usually lay strewn around it. There was only one thing left on his bed, a long narrow package wrapped in cloth.

He shoved it hastily under the bed, as the door opened and his lord father walked in. “I see Ghost has been exiled to the hall,” he remarked, wryly.

“He kept trying to eat my things,” Jon explained.

“Be grateful that it is the only thing he has tried to eat.” Father sat down on the bed besides Jon. “I wanted to speak with you.”

Jon nodded. He had been expecting this.

“I do not know why the king has decided to take you South,” he admitted, “and I can scarcely refuse him, but King’s Landing is no place for a bastard, Jon. It is a pit of vipers there, and nobody will ever let you forget your birth.”

Jon remembered what the princess had said. _Brandon Snow was a bastard and he almost slew a dragon._ “It doesn’t matter,” Jon promised. “I’ll show them that a bastard can have honour too. I won’t shame you Father.”

“I know you won’t,” Father said, smiling. “All the same… there are those who will mock you for your birth, who will question you about your mother and make japes about her. They may be your fellow squires, or high lords. Be _careful,_ Jon.”

 _My mother._ Father had never spoken of her; Jon had asked him, once, when he was no more than a boy, and Father had only looked at him, with what Bran called “his lord’s face”. Jon had never asked of her afterwards. He scarcely even thought of her. Now, he blurted out, “Who was she? My mother.”

“You will know, in time, when you are old enough,” his father said curtly. “You must never speak of her in King’s Landing, Jon, nor the circumstances of your birth.”

 _My birth shames him,_ Jon realized. “How can I,” he blazed, suddenly, “when I know nothing of her?”

For a moment, he thought his father meant to chastise him, to give him the strap or force him to stay in Winterfell… instead Ned Stark said, very softly, “She was a lovely woman, Jon. I will tell you more of her, one day.”

The rage died in Jon, as swiftly as if somebody had poured ice cold water over a blazing fire. He bowed his head, ashamed. His father rose, and kissed him on the forehead. “Promise me you will do as I say.”

Jon nodded. “I promise.”

He did not have time to reflect or brood. There was something else he wanted to do. Jon took the bundle, and made for Arya’s rooms. Ghost was napping outside, but woke when Jon walked past and lopped after him.

Arya’s rooms were even messier than Jon’s had been. Nymeria was helping her pack, carrying wisps of silk into the suitcase whenever Arya pointed at them. When she saw Ghost though, she dropped a flowered green dress and bounded over. The albino wolf nuzzled her cautiously, and then lay down.

“Septa Mordane made he unpack everything,” Arya explained, making a face and picking up the green dress. “I was all packed and everything, but she said a lady couldn’t just throw her dresses in a trunk like a bundle of rags. What’s the point, when they’re going to get messed up anyways?”

“It’s all as well.” He laid the bundle on her bed. “I have something for you, and it _can’t_ be thrown in a trunk like a bundle of rags.”

“What is it?” Arya asked eagerly.

Jon unwrapped the bundle carefully, and held up a slim, light sword, no longer than his arm but live steel all the same, under the hard leather scabbard. Arya took it reverently and drew the blade, marvelling at the silvery blue sheen.

“Be careful with this,” Jon said. “You could kill a man with it.”

His sister slid the blade back into its sheath and laid it on the bed. “Are you going to teach me to fight?”

Jon shook his head. “I can’t. I need to attend on the King, with Bran.”

“Maybe I could join you,” Arya suggested, smiling. “He didn’t mind when I joined you in the yard.”

“I doubt Father will let you.”

“How will I learn then?” Arya picked up the blade again and drew it out, in full this time, and let the scabbard fall to the floor.

“Watch the squires in the yard,” Jon suggested. “Swim and climb trees and make yourself strong. And remember, the most important lesson is to stick them with the pointy end.”

Arya laughed and whacked him on the arm with the flat of the blade. “What should I call it?” she asked.

“Name it after your favourite thing in the world,” Jon told her.

Arya looked confused for a moment, but only a moment. “Needle!” she exclaimed, laughing.

Jon laughed too, and picked up the scabbard from the floor. “Pack quickly,” he said, handing her the scabbard. “We have to say our good-byes.”

She took the scabbard, suddenly solemn, and sheathed the sword. Jon helped her pack, and they were finished within half an hour. Afterwards, he ran to his room to get his trunk, Ghost lopping at his heels, and they met again in the yard. Lady Catelyn was embracing her daughters and Bran, stroking their hair and almost weeping. Jon hung back. She would not want him there.

Instead he watched, suddenly awkward and out of place, as his father walked up to them. Lady Catelyn threw her arms around him, while Little Rickon clung to his leg. Robb was there too, and Jon heard him asking, in low solemn tones, for Father’s blessing.

Robb spotted him standing in the corner, and strode up to him, smiling. Jon caught Lady Catelyn’s look, sharp as steel and bitter as poison. “When you get to King’s Landing,” Robb said, “give Rhaenys my love and tell her, from me, that her babe’s head looks like a melon.”

“A melon?”

“She used to say I looked like a melon when I was a child,” Robb admitted.

“Have you seen the babe?” Jon asked.

“No. But tell her anyways, Jon.”

“I’ll give her your love,” Jon offered. “You can tell her the melon bit yourself.”

Robb laughed and embraced him. “You fight well,” he said. “Thrash all the other squires for me.”

“Done,” Jon promised.

There was a shout from behind them, as Rhaegar entered the yard, followed by his brother and sister and his son, Prince Aegon. Robb ran to them. The king murmured something and kissed him on the forehead, and then he turned and embraced Princess Daenerys. Prince Viserys stood there for a moment, still as a statue and slightly flushed, before he embraced both of them too.

“Hodor,” Hodor said behind him, and Jon turned to see the tall, simple stable boy holding his horse, freshly brushed and saddled. The beast shied away when he saw Ghost, and it was all Hodor could do to hold him still. Jon mounted him, and he calmed, a little.

A trumpet sounded, and all at once the gates were opening, and they were all pouring out in a flash of bronze and steel and gold. Jon Snow took one last look at the castle he called home, and dug his boots into the sides of his horse.


	8. Dany III

**Dany**

The Dreadfort loomed in front of them, massive grey towers jutting out of steep walls studded with jagged stone merlons like the jaw of some enormous fish. The walls were painted a deep red and the flayed man of House Bolton flapped overhead on a pink and red banner. Dany could hear the faint rumble of the Weeping Water in the distance and the wolves howling in the distance. Grey Wind added his voice to theirs.

She pulled her furs tighter, but it was not the cold that made Dany shiver. The journey to the Dreadfort had been long and hard and Dany’s legs were chafed raw from the riding and numb with cold. Dany was accustomed to riding, but travelling through miles and miles of silent, snowy forests with no road was a different matter altogether from riding her filly through the sunny forest beside her brothers. Every muscle in her body ached and sometimes she feared she would lose a toe or a finger to frostbite…but if her betrothed felt the cold or the pain he gave no sign of it, so Dany bit her lip and said nothing.

Instead, she put a hand on her saddlebags, where she kept the three eggs, black and green and cream. They gave her strength and courage, and there were times when she thought she must have felt them pulse with warmth. Lady Catelyn had not wanted her to take them North, but Dany had been insistent. She had taken a silver and emerald brooch with her too, which Viserys had given her by way of apology. “We’re brother and sister,” he had said, clipping the brooch around her neck. “We ought to part friends.” Dany had left all the rest of her jewelry behind, with her silks and velvets. There was no place for luxury in the North.

The first two nights she had huddled with her filly while Robb and Harwin and Alyn made the campsite, but on the third day, and every day after, she forced herself to help them light the fire and tether the horses, and roll up the bedrolls when they broke camp. She was the blood of the dragon, and it would take more than snow and cold to frighten her.

Now, as she looked up at the Dreadfort, Dany longed for the snow and the cold and the hard riding. She ought to rejoice at the prospect of a warm, bountiful meal, thick spiced stews and fried capons, and a warm bed to spend the night in… but something about the castle and the banner flapping over it made her uneasy. Viserys had told her, once, that the Boltons kept a room with the hides of the men they flayed. _Let them try me,_ Dany thought fiercely. _I am the blood of the dragon._

A band of men rode towards them, twenty in all, carrying the sigil of House Bolton. “He sends an honour guard to greet us,” Robb observed. Dany nodded and gripped the reins of her horse tighter.

The party was led by a tall, scarred man with thick black hair and steel greaves over his legs. Besides him, a freckled squire carried the red and pink banner. Dany saw a master among the party, a stooped little man with a heavy chain around his neck.

“Milord welcomes you,” the scarred man said, with a slight bow. He was looking at Grey Wind, who padded alongside Robb’s horse. The direwolf was near as big as a grown wolf now, and growing bigger by the day.

“Lord Bolton’s welcome warms us,” Robb replied, without the hint of a smile.

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

Lord Bolton was waiting for them in the yard. He was a skinny man, fifty year old or more, with pale stony eyes and a bloodless smile. He bowed as they dismounted. “My lord and lady.” Oddly enough, he reminded her of the silvery bloodless fish from the _Encyclopedia of the Waters_

Dany thought of the room in the Dreadfort with the skins of House Bolton’s enemies, tanned like leather and salted like meat, and dipped a curtsey. They exchanged a few courtesies, and Roose Bolton’s lips brushed Dany’s hands, before the servants led them to their rooms. In spite of herself, she shivered.

A roaring fire awaited her in her chambers and a bath, freshly drawn. Dany stripped off her soiled furs and slipped into the water. It was cooler than she would have liked; in King’s Landing the baths were always scalding. _Fire cannot harm a dragon,_ Viserys had told her once.

Despite the roaring fire, Dany was still cold, almost colder than she had been on the ride here. She climbed out of the bath and laid a hand on the wall. Winterfell was built over a hot spring, and its walls pulsed with the heat of the boiling water that ran through it. The walls of the Dreadfort were cold as ice.

The door to her chamber creaked open, and Robb entered. He averted his eyes, and seemed embarrassed to find her naked. Grey Wind was beside him, and seemed unbothered by her nudity.

“Come in,” she said. “Close the door behind you.”

“Lord Bolton is feasting us tonight,” Robb said, closing the door. He seemed as little at ease as she was. “I mislike the man,” he said suddenly. “The Starks and Boltons have been enemies for a thousand years and the way he looks at me…”

“As if he was wondering how your skin would look on his wall,” Dany finished.

Robb looked up, surprised. “Yes,” he admitted. “That’s exactly what it feels like. As if he’s wondering why some stripling southern boy should have lordship over him and plotting how best to poison my porridge. All the rest will be the same, Umber and Karstark and Manderly, men who’ve lived and rode and ruled in the North all their lives. Gods Dany, what are we doing here?”

Dany wanted to cry. What was she doing here, a thousand miles from King’s Landing, from her brothers and Aegon and Rhaenys and little Aemon? Instead she made herself smile. “We’re winning the respect of your bannermen.” She walked over to Grey Wind and scratched him behind the ear. The direwolf grunted slightly and tilted his head. “ _Our_ bannermen.”


	9. Jon III

Jon hated travelling. 

Lancel Lannister, a pretty milk sop lad and another one of Rhaegar’s squires, had told him that they were “travelling light”, but it did not feel that way to Jon. There were three heavy wagons, loaded with clothes and kitchen utensils and armor an tents and the gods alone knew what else, and they seemed to take turns getting stuck in every ditch or pit. Then they had to be unloaded, dragged out by a half dozen strong men, and loaded up again. 

While they waited, Prince Viserys and Aegon would take a dozen men and go hunting; sometimes, they contrived to return hours after the wagon had been rescued and reassembled, muddy and laughing, bearing a scrawny deer or a string of hares and birds with as much pride as if it were the head of some giant slain in single combat. Jon wished he could go with them. 

The King required that his squires attend him at all times, even if he was only writing or fiddling with his lute, which was most of the time. Being a squire seemed to involve precious little sparring or heroism, and a great deal of sitting in the cool airiness of the King’s tent, and fetching ink or parchment. 

The other squires were poor company. There was Bran, of course, but he was only seven and the constant sitting around made him fidgety and ill tempered. Then there was Lancel Lannister, who spent his time picking fights and losing, or boasting of the glories of Casterly Rock. There was Ronald Storm, the only other bastard besides Jon, but he spent all his time playing dice and talking about the merits of various serving girls with his brother, Raymund Connington. Jon was almost certain neither of them had ever touched a woman, not least because they looked to be closer to Bran’s age than Jon’s. Edric Dayne was a sweet quiet lad of twelve, but he stared at Jon with unabashed curiosity and never said a word. Probably wondering who my mother is, Jon thought bitterly. 

He saw father and his sisters only occasionally. Arya, he gathered, was having the time of her life, running through the woods and gathering wildflowers or beetles, with Nymeria at her heels, and Ghost and Summers too as oft as not. She had given him a bundle of purple and yellow flowers, which had turned out to be poisonous; Jon got a dark red rash on both his hands, which alternately itched and burned. 

“What happened with your hands?” Ronald whispered. One of the wagons had broken an axle, and they were, once more, keeping vigil while the King scribbled away at his desk like a man entranced. It was a blue cloudless morning, with a cool east wind and the promise of summer rain in the air. At Winterfell, Jon would be sparring with Jory Cassel or hunting with Harwin.

“None of your business,” Jon said, not very quietly. A lightning bolt could have struck the tent, and he doubted the King would notice. He buried his hands in the wool of his tunic and tried to glare Ronald into silence.

Ronald looked a little abashed, but Raymud simply grinned. “Did you catch it from a whore?” he asked. 

Jon was on his feet in a moment. “I will never visit whores! Never!” Raymund made a sound that was half a gasp and half a cry, and Jon realized he had the boy by the collar. “Do you understand?”

Jon felt a sudden blow to the side of his face, and staggered. He kept his grip on Raymund, and swung out with his free hand almost before he regained his balance. It connected with a satisfying thump and in an instant he say Ronald on the floor, clutching the side of his face. Then something seized his leg and he too was on the ground too, dazed and blinking.   
Raymund was on top of him, fist drawn back as if ready to punch and eyes fixed on something to the side. The King, Jon realized. He turned his head, wincing, and saw the King had swivelled his chair around to look at them. He had a cluster of grapes in one hand.

I’ve shamed Father, Jon thought. I’ll be sent back to Winterfell in disgrace. He imagined the smug, stately triumph on Lady Catelyn’s face and the stern sad look on Father’s, as he said, “She was right after all. Nothing good ever comes of bastards.”

“Your Grace!” Jon shoved Raymund off him and forced himself into a kneeling position. His head throbbed with every move. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ronald fall to his knees. “I- I didn’t mean to disturb you- Your Grace-”

The King popped a grape into his mouth and said nothing.

“He’s insane!” Ronald broke in. “All we did was make a jape and he attacked us out of nowhere-”

“They insulted my honour!” Jon said. 

“No we didn’t!”

“Jon’s not insane!” Bran added helpfully. 

“Do not speak to a Targaryen of insanity,” the King said quietly.

For a moment, the room was silent. “Y-Your Grace,” Raymund muttered. He was pale as death. Jon stole a look at Bran, who seemed rooted in place, and then at the King. He’ll burn us, Jon thought, me and Father and Arya and Bran and Sansa. He’s the Mad King’s son, to the bone. He tried to speak but his mouth tasted of ash.

The King’s lips twitched. 

“You seem to need exercise,” he said briskly. “Ronald, Raymund, fetch me some more ink and parchment. And give this to your uncle.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ronald said, taking a sealed letter from the King. The two practically scrambled over themselves in their haste to get out. 

“Walk with me, Jon.” The King rose. 

Jon got to his feet slowly, and followed the King out of the tent. The air outside was cool and sweet, and tasted of rain for a certainty. The King set off in no particularly direction, ignoring the knights and lords and tradesmen who paused to bow and gawk and beg pardon. 

They stopped in front of a large grey and blue tent. Jon realized, abruptly, that is was his father’s.

“No,” he blurted out. “Please Your Grace, don’t tell him-” I swore not to shame him. 

The King gave him an odd look, and entered the tent. Jon followed, heart pounding. 

Inside, Ned Stark sat alone, polishing Ice. “Your Grace.” He laid the sword aside, and rose to his feet. He glanced at Jon for a moment, and then bowed. “Is there a reason for this… honour?”

“Walk with me,” the King said, and walked back out of the tent. 

Fat droplets of rain were falling now, but the King seemed not to notice. Ned Stark gave an encouraging nod to Jon and then fell in beside the King. Jon trailed after them, wishing he could run away or drop dead where he stood. Almost anything would be better than seeing the look of disappointment on his father’s face. 

Worry turned to doubt as the King led them to the edge of the forest, and plunged into the cool dark underbrush without pause. It was raining in earnest now; Jon and need wore sturdy woollen tunics and boots, but the King was dressed in light silk, now plastered to his skin, and soft cloth shoes, which presently looked to be more water than cloth. Nobody said a word.

At last, the King stopped, and turned to Father. “You are said to an honourable lord, Stark.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Your son shares your… acute sense of honour.”

Jon swallowed, and stared at his feet. He felt Ned Stark look at him inquisitively. 

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

The King laughed, and Jon felt long cold fingers ruffle his hair. “I’ve taken a liking to your son, Stark, and I mean to bring him into my confidence. How trustworthy is he, Stark?”  
“I would trust him with my life, Your Grace.”

It was all Jon could do not to throw his arms around his father, but the King clutched his hair and tilted his head back, till he was staring directly at the King’s face. “Jon Snow,” he said softly. “Do you know how Arthur Dayne died?”

Jon glanced at his father, who looked pale and stern, and then to the King, who looked half entranced. 

“No, Your Grace,” he said at last. Father never spoke of the rebellion, or let anyone else speak of it.

“I thought it was safe.” The King’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion. His grip tightened and Jon thought he meant to yank out his hair from the roots. “The rebels were in hand, and I had need of the Kingsguard. I left them alone.” There was an odd, faraway glint in his eyes. Perhaps the King was mad after all. 

“A king never acts without proof,” the King continued. “My mother told me that. It’s true.” He shivered. “I know he did it though. I know he did it, but I will be a just king.” He seemed to trail off, rather than to simple cease speaking. 

Jon looked at his father. For the first time, Lord Eddard Stark seemed frightened. “Your Grace?” Father prompted, hesitant. Jon had never known his father to be hesitant in anything. “He?”

The King seemed to come out of his reverie a little. He let go of Jon’s hair, and Jon staggered away, wincing. “I know you want to know where Lyanna and the girl is, as much as I do.”

The girl?

Father looked long and hard at Jon before speaking. “Your Grace, in all likelihood Lyanna and her babe are dead, killed by the same brigands that slew Ser Arthur Dayne.”

“No! They are alive.” The King drew in a breath and smiled. “The babe must be alive, for the sake of the kingdom, for the sake of the world. I dreamt of it, Stark.”

He’s mad, Jon thought. This King is as mad as the old one, gods help us. In spite of it all, there was something in the King’s voice that made you listen, rapt and half- believing. 

“Think of it, Stark,” the King said harshly. “Who was in Dorne, at the time of their disappearance? There was poison in Arthur’s blood- who could have done that? Who hates me enough to kill my friend, and steal my bride and my child, for no reason except to spite me?” It was pouring now in earnest; the wind whipped the King’s long fair hair in his face and the rain felt half like hail. 

The Red Viper, Jon realized, brushing his sodden hair away from his face. It made sense; the Red Viper was famous for his cruelty, for his hot temper, and for his love of his sister Elia. “Why didn’t you do anything then?” he blurted out. “Why didn’t you avenge them?”

For a moment, he thought Ned Stark meant to belt him then and there, but then the King said, “As I said before, I had no proof. But we must act now. The realm depends on it.”

“The realm?” Eddard asked, blankly. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I don’t understand.”

“The realm,” the King said earnestly. “Winter is coming, Stark, the Long Night which will seem to never end, and my Visenya is the third head of the dragon.”


End file.
